


Book of lies

by MegaMind2203



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Harry's eyes and soul are inspiring, Louis has a lack of inspiration, M/M, Writer!Louis, reader!Harry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-07-21 18:08:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7398067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MegaMind2203/pseuds/MegaMind2203
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even as one of the most prosperous romantic novelists in the twenty-first century, I sometimes suffered from lack of inspiration, too. I had overcome this obstacle a praiseworthy number of times in my seven-year-old career, but that day, the ninth of December, turned into a nightmare. I had to save myself from this trap immediately, so I embarked on an adventure in search for inspiration. And not long after that I found it in one boy with a pair of green diamonds for eyes and a heart that only beat for me. And I, as every other thief, took it.</p><p>Aka AU, where Louis loses inspiration, but finds it in Harry and completes Book of Lies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue  -  Harry Styles, who loves you

**Part I**

  
Just like Louis hadn't understood why the turtle beat the rabbit in the race in that one fairy tale, that he read when he was seven, he didn't understand why Mr Shmidt called him so early in the morning on a Saturday. He was late, of course, because he had just opened his eyes when he received the call from his boss, his mouth smelled like fish guts and the car keys were missing. He had to take the bus and drink a tasteless cheap one-dollar coffee from the machine at the bus station.

  
No one greeted him at the doorway of the tall building, but he wasn't surprised – who the hell would be working on a day off!? “I am, obviously,” Louis thought and grinned to himself. His attire wasn't appropriate: gray pants, which he somehow dig out of a huge pile of clothes, and a white T-shirt that definitely hadn't been washed recently. He hoped there would be no casualties due to his morning breath as he looked through his pockets for a mint. Alas, he only found a piece of paper with a telephone number and a name – Daniel – which didn't sound familiar. Louis threw the paper to the side carelessly and entered the building, rushing through the lobby and heading straight to the elevator.

  
After a short trip to the seventh and last floor, Louis got out of the lift with a plastic coffee cup in one hand and a terrible hairstyle. He headed towards the office in the end of the corridor and faced the wooden door. He wasn't even thinking about knocking, when someone on the other side of the door pushed it open abruptly and Louis found himself face-to-face with the not-so-happy-and-radiant Mr Stefan Shmidt, better known as the man, who paid Louis to write books and sponsored his writing career. Stefan was a thirty-four year old man, married to a nymphomaniac woman and a father to two freaky children. Louis understood that his life wasn't perfect, but Mr Shmidt found his cure against sadness on the large desk with his secretary.

  
The man grabbed Louis by his already-wrinkled T-shirt and hauled him into the office. He swiftly took his place on the tall leather chair and motioned for Louis to sit on the armchair on the other side of the expensive desk. Tomlinson, like a obedient dog, quickly sat down and waited for the other man to speak.  
“I'm disappointed, Louis,” exclaimed Mr Shmidt and threw his hands in the air. “What's happening to you?”

  
And Louis smiled to himself, because even he didn't hold the answer to that question.

  
“I know you're angry, but this doesn't depend on me. I don't choose when to write well and when not,” Louis explained, but his boss didn't move a muscle, just continued to glare angrily at the young writer.

  
“No, Tomlinson, listen to me. I don't pay you to 'write well', I pay you to write perfectly! I don't care about you and your whims. I don't even want to hear your sad excuses of lack of inspiration or some other crap.”

“I'm sorry, Mr -”

  
“The commission didn't like your last idea.”

  
“What? But it's perfect! The problems kids face in the twenty-first century is a hot topic right now.”

  
“That's true, but you're not a psychiatrist, you're a writer. You write about love, adventures and some other bullshit. People expect everything from you and you give them nothing.”

  
“I promise I won't stall any longer and I will do my best to carry out my duties,” Louis replied and flashed an apologetic smile.

  
Mr Shmidt sighed. He was fully aware of the fact that Louis was a valuable asset and Shmidt couldn't afford to lose him.

  
“You have three months to write a novel. I don't want to hear any excuses. You'll write day and night and in the end the commission will decide whether you're going to continue working for us or not.” Tomlinson nodded and Stefan gazed at the enormous window. “You're free to go now.”

  
Louis muttered a strained “have a nice day” and was heading towards the exit when his boss stopped him with his now-calm voice: “Read some of your fan mail. It's bound to give you at least a little inspiration.”

**Part II**

  
Louis kicked off his shoes and stumbled into the kitchen, where he started making real coffee. The flavor of the vile mix of sugar and water had irritated his taste buds and he needed something refreshing. The ninth of December was terrible – first he received an unexpected wake-up call early in the morning and then his boss informed him that he may soon be fired. After that some pickpocket stole his few dollars at the bus station – dollars, that he meant to pay his transportation with. He was kicked out of the bus and was forced to walk the rest of the way home. This day was definitely the worst day in the history of bad days. And it was only half past eleven.

  
 Louis decided to accept someone's advice for the first time in his life. He entered his room and flopped onto his bed. Instead of sleeping, Louis placed his computer on his lap and leaned on the bed's headboard. He opened his email box and realized that he had never done what many famous people do: Louis had never read his fans' emails and letters. He never met up with them, he never took photos with them, he never signed their books. He knew there were people, who loved him for his talent, but he had never felt the need nor the desire to communicate with them. “1256 UNREAD EMAILS.” The list unfolded in front of his eyes and Louis noticed that the last email had been sent just a few seconds ago. Probably its sender was still on his computer.

From: harrystyles92@yahoo.com  
Subject: the most terrible day in my life  
09.12.2015 11:47

Louis was actually interested in the guy who seemed to share his torment that same day.

  
 “Dear Louis Tomlinson,

  
It would be extremely impolite of me not to start this letter with “how are you” or “how was your day” - you probably don't know, but I always do. But today I'm going to outright talk about myself. Today Gemma woke me up at 09:00, just as I had told her. I dressed up and put on the blue sweater that I told you about the other day. I ate breakfast and drove in my newly-washed car. I listened to your favorite song on the way - “Wicked games” - to remind me of you and get rid of the anxiousness. It helped, kind of. I got there (on time), Molly helped me fix my hair and I sat down to wait for my turn. Not long after that, they called my name. I placed the sheets in my folder (blue, so as to remind me of your eyes) and I got on the stage. Everyone was there, Louis. Everyone was watching me and I was trembling. I couldn't even say my name under the stares of so many people. I was looking at the text on the white paper and I just started crying, because it reminded me of you. And they laughed, Louis. They were laughing under my nose, they were pointing fingers and whispering to one another. I couldn't withstand the pressure, the tears were falling and I, too, tumbled on the stage in front of everyone. Molly ran over to help me and calm me down, but I wasn't okay, because I had just ruined the thing I had been waiting for for a long time. I had been preparing for the public reading for months and I had described to you every little detail about the rehearsals.

  
I wish I was more like you. You write astonishingly and you don't feel ashamed to reveal your talent to thousands of people. I, on the other hand, am a fool, who hasn't got the courage to read one word in front of some strangers.

  
Then I remembered you and I was okay. I told Molly you have your birthday coming up this month and she gave me an amazing idea for your present. I'll send you something for Christmas, too, of course.

  
And now, Louis Tomlinson, how was your day?

  
Harry Styles, who loves you xx :)  
P.S. This email is number one hundred and fifty. Happy anniversary, I guess.”

  
And for the first time in the last few years, Louis wanted to respond to this boy.

From: louist91@gmail.com  
Subject: [no subject]  
09.12.2015 12:02

“Mr Harry Styles,  
Could you please give me your profile in one of the social networks, so I could get in touch with you? You will make me more than happy if you would spend some of your spare time with me over a cup of tea some afternoon. Have a nice day!”

Louis had something in mind, writing the short email. Too bad Harry Styles couldn't read between the lines.


	2. Lie #1 - I am glad to meet you

**PART I**

  
No one had taught me to knock on the door of the public restroom in order to prevent a meeting with someone's genitals. Alas, my mother had spent too much time on training me to become a doctor. And I, for her greatest disappointment, became a writer.

  
The eleventh of December started off bad for me and that was quite revealing as to how the rest of the day would go. Of course, I slept in again – the previous night I had given my full attention to my TV series and none to my sleep and that definitely reflected badly on my appearance. I put on some shorts (a bad idea) and an old gray T-shirt that I used as a blanket for my golden retriever. Sammy was a little bastard that loved getting fur all over my apartment and making me happy with his surprising urination (again, all over my apartment). This day, tough, I had no time to deal with him.

  
I exited my home as Sammy was looking at me with big pleading eyes, hoping I would show mercy and give him a piece of the fish fillet he adored. Unfortunately, that was not happening; not today when I was so late.  


New York seemed stiff and cold at that time of the year – the people were huddled in their expensive coats and winter hats and didn't pay attention to the world around them, the cars were speeding down the frozen asphalt and the cafes were crowded by the frowning residents of the city. Observing all that I expected to burst due to inspiration, I expected to feel the explosion of words in my head. But no, New York didn't manage to inspire me. And if this Giant couldn't do it, then I didn't know what the Hell would be so powerful as to succeed.  


I caught the bus in the last moment, but I reckoned the driver got his fun from watching Louis Tomlinson running after the vehicle in shorts and slippers, waving his hands erratically and swearing unapologetically. Obviously the little avenging assholes in my life were getting more than the necessary. 

  
I almost missed my bus stop – thank you to the old lady, who shoved me with her umbrella because I had fallen asleep carelessly. It turned out that while sleeping I had leaned my head on her enormous breasts and she had gotten angry. She started damning the whole young generation and I needed only three seconds to realize I will have to jump off the bus. I landed mostly unharmed – the only bruised thing on me was my dignity. Oh well.

  
The cafe, where the meeting was supposed to be held, was located only three blocks away from the bus station. I walked and cursed the moment I decided that going out in shorts and a T-shirt in the middle of December was absolutely appropriate. I wrapped my hands around my body, rubbed my thighs together – nothing changed. The cold still numbed my body and I couldn't wait to welcome the heat of the cafe with open arms and drink from the hot three-dollar tea.  


But the cafe in question was a far cry from what I had expected. Walking through the front door, I assumed I had walked in some abandoned warehouse – the window on the door was cracked and the large sign _“PORCHLIGHT”_ was placed askew. I entered cautiously and was greeted by the gross sounds of human needs, coming from the toilets. Who the Hell places the restroom next to the entrance? Next a strong abominable stench hit me and I deeply regretted giving up my precious sleep in order to come here. A man exited the toilets – dirty-looking and humped with gray hair, wearing turn up clothes (and yet he was still dressed warmer than me). The man made his way out of the cafe and sat down in front of the building, reaching his hand out towards the passing people, begging them for some change. I felt sorry for the man, but as I was thinking that the smell had been coming from him, I realized that one of my slippers had kissed passionately a dog shit on my way to the cafe. Before the odor of animal poop had spread all around the cafe, I entered the restroom.

  
It wasn't big and divided into two sections, but the women's was empty. I headed towards the two stalls in the men's section while the gross stench harmed my airways and not thinking it through, I threw the door of one of them open. And then, lucky me, I found myself face-to-face with the biggest penis I had ever seen. I literally couldn't take my eyes off it and its owner stared at me, not noticing that his dick was still holding my utmost attention. I was peering down, absolutely fascinated by the gigantic phenomena. As much as I wanted to lessen the awkwardness in the tiny stall, I couldn't tear my gaze away from the large wonder in front of me and a cat seemed to have caught the boy's tongue. Still, it was not every day that Louis Tomlinson barged in a toilet and stared at your member. Lucky guy.

  
The guy turned his back on me ashamed and I mumbled “sorry” before running out of the toilets. I didn't wipe the dog shit off my shoe, but at least I got to see some magic in real life. I grinned to myself as I made my way to a lonely table in one of the cafe's corners, carrying the horrid smell with me. I sat down, waiting, but I didn't even know whom for. 

  
Just as I was browsing through the (not really) diverse menu of _“PORCHLIGHT”_ , containing mainly of cheap drinks and desserts, someone got me out of my trance. I lifted my gaze and my eyes met the ones of a boy. At a first glance, I noticed he was badly dressed – ragged sweater and tight black jeans that revealed a big part of his knees. He was tall, but not very slender. He was a little humped; maybe because of his long legs. His hair was sticking out in all directions and, in my opinion, he needed a haircut as soon as possible. His shoes were practically begging to be replaced. His smile was a bit too big for my taste and the dimples weren't of any help. Unfortunately, this acquaintance was going to end up bad – for me.

  
“Hello, I'm Harry Styles. You must be Mr Tomlinson,” the boy started, his eyes not once leaving mine. Him addressing me as 'mister' took me by surprise. He was respectful, that was nice.

  
_“I'm so glad to meet you.”_ A lie. I wasn't at all glad to meet him. Right then I needed a cup of hot coffee to share with me, myself and my thoughts. And if God was feeling generous, I could write something on the napkin. But as unlucky as I am I had to spend some of my time talking to this boy.  
He sat down on the chair in front of me. I looked around and came to the bright conclusion that the cafe wasn't really clean. There weren't many clients and the small quantity of people on the tables looked more than bored with the environment. And I was already bored with the boy.  


“Well, how are you?” Henry asked, hoping to get rid of the tension between us. “Look, I am sorry for that. I didn't know you would barge in like this.”

  
“You're the boy with the big penis!?” I exclaimed agitated and he looked down at the table. He was embarrassed. I wouldn't be if I had his gift. “Oh, sorry.”

  
“Yeah, I'm sorry you had to see it.” The boy placed his face in his hands and started massaging his temples. He was ashamed.  


“You don't need to be sorry. It was my pleasure.”

  
I expected to see him smiling, but he forced some smile that looked more like a grimace on his face and started staring at the passing cars. Maybe he was counting them, I couldn't know. I found it weird how our conversation didn't last more than a minute and he was already confused. 

  
“Can I get your order?” A high-pitched voice came from the side. The waitress was young, on the curvy side and had a little of her cheap one-dollar lipstick on her teeth. She was looking at Harvey and expecting his answer, but the poor guy didn't even know what was on the menu. I had decided to order El Injerto with two sugars. “We don't offer this, sir,” replied the woman. I felt offended by the cafe's service. “I suggest trying out today's special – chocolate cake with almonds. You'll want to lick it off your plate,” the woman offered enthusiastically and I glanced at the curly boy that was nervously swinging on his chair.  


“Just get us two long coffees.”  


She nodded and swiftly left the table, while Harry lifted his head and opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by my fake excitement.  


“Well, Harry. Tell me something about you.” His lips curled up in an almost unnoticeable smile, but he started talking while playing with his napkin.  


“There isn't much I could say about myself,” he answered curtly, but I hurried to encourage him. “Fine. My name's Harry Styles and I'm twenty-one. I was born in Holmes Chapel, but my family and I moved to New York when I was fifteen. I live alone in a small flat and I work in a bakery close to my apartment. The money's not much, but it's enough for me to buy your books. I have a sister and a cat, named Gemma.” Harry started waving his hands in the air. “I meant, that my sister's name is Gemma. The cat's just Dusty.” I though over the Gemma in question and remembered reading her name in the only email of Harry's that I read. I expected her to be his girlfriend, but obviously I was wrong. “I guess that's all.”  
After hearing Harry's story the first thought that popped into my mind was that he wasn't the typical young adult – he didn't seem like the party-type and definitely had speech problems, he had a hard time getting out of awkward situations and waved his hands around too much. He often stuttered and wasn't ready to decide what he wanted to drink, he loved staring at the cars outside of the window and avoided eye contact with everyone. He was weird. I wasn't sure in which sense of the word.  


“Sounds interesting,” I managed to mutter and he smiled. He knew I was lying. “You write lots of emails,” I added and smiled in order not to sound angry or mocking. He twitched, but softened after a few moments.

  
“Yes. I don't have many friends, so I decided writing to you every day was the best way to let off some steam. It helped me. I mean...” I could see the uneasiness creeping into his mind and he grabbed the torn up napkin again. He continued to fold and unfold it. “When I thought of you, I started to get calmer. I'm bad at talking to people and keeping up conversations, so most of my acquaintances are used to me keeping quiet. I don't know, I just admire you for managing to do all that, and at the same time. You write incredibly well and you breathe life into your words, you recreate the magic. I – I really can't believe you wanted to meet me. That's very important to me and I... thank you.”  


I smiled. I just smiled, because there was nothing else I could do. Harry Styles was so innocent. It was like a small child still lived inside him, a little child that didn't know how to look at the world, that didn't know what to do with his life. He was living alone, but he wasn't ready to dive into adulthood and life. That's why he escaped reality by reading books. There he felt complete and strong. He was a piece of flesh that didn't know how to live and wasn't in hurry to find out. A piece of soul that satisfied its hunger through books and filled the void with silence. That was Harry. And I had nothing against getting to know him.  


“Your coffees are here.”  


It turned out that Harry disliked coffee, but his politeness didn't let him complain. He just sat there and squirmed because of the sour taste of the hot drink. And I watched him trying not to throw up, but keeping quiet and clenching his teeth. He was nodding as if he liked it, as if he didn't notice the smell of dog poop around him and as if he didn't see Sammy's fur on my T-shirt.  


His lie inspired me to start lying, too.  


**PART 2**  


**Introduction** (pg.5)   
On December the ninth I felt completely and utterly empty. I realized that lately my life consisted of me constantly being late and sleeping until midday. Coffee, movies, sleep and repeat. I was starting to think that my existence was pointless as I wasn't contributing with anything to the world. As Eleanor Roosevelt had said: “Do one thing every day that scares you.” I definitely did that and put my meaningless life to an end. I started socializing with people – perhaps only one person, but by all means that left me petrified. I wasn't used to being a social butterfly, not after living the life of an exiled writer in my apartment with my dog and computer being my only company. Then I found out Harry Styles existed. Maybe only selected few know him, but I won't be surprised if you hear this name for the first time. He had dedicated a couple of years of his life studying my work and admiring it. His emails to me are hundreds, full of so many truths that even the noblest of all man couldn't utter. Harry Styles is an overgrown kid from Holmes Chapel that finds his cure in books and I'm sure he's not the only one. I do it myself, too – I write to live. And when I don't write I feel as if I'm suffocating. Inspiration is like oxygen to me and for a long time I was deprived of it. But I found it in the green eyes and hoarse voice of one Harry Styles. If you run into Harry Styles, don't look at his pants (even though there's a lot to see) – that will scare him; don't invite him on a coffee date – that will make him sick; don't rush him into telling you his life story – that will confuse and sadden him. Just write about Harry Styles. That's exactly what I'm going to do.

 **Dedicated to Harry Styles.**  
_Thank you for entrusting me your heart and I'm sorry that I'm going to break it_


	4. Lie #2 - „You have a lovely home”

**PART l**

I've never been fond of Germans: not one nice poem could come out of their language, because every recital in Dutch sounded like an exorcism; their participation in the World War Two wasn't famous for good things, and the combination of colors on their flag really bugged me out. The postman was German and always yelled at Sammy – “Geht weg!”. Apparently God was part German, too, as he made sure that my hatred towards the nation caused its enhanced appearance in my life. My boss was German and always wrote his name with an 'S', but pronounced it “Shtefan.” I found exactly zero logic in that.

I also didn't find any logic in his call in the morning on the seventeenth of December – Sunday. Every American knew that Sundays were days for lazing around and taking a break from the weekdays' lazing around. But, unfortunately, Mr Shtimdt was German.

“Tomlinson!” he started with his awful accent. “You've been a no-show lately!”

“It's Saturday, boss,” I defended myself, while browsing the TV's porn channels in the living room. “Let me get some rest.” He wasn't impressed with my audacity and scoffed.

“I'll let you get some rest forever, if you don't move your ass. Jetzt!”

“I'm working on it,” I murmured and hurried to end the call.

The truth is (and with the nature of my job in mind, I rarely told the truth) that I wasn't working on anything. There was only one idea in my head and it had been there for a week now, but I never proceeded with the long adventure that is realizing it. It was genial, ideal even. But it was also cruel and able to ruin somebody's life. I was ready to take the risk for my career though.

I grabbed my phone, turning off the TV's sound. I didn't want to scare him before I even start my task.

“Hello, Harry?” I said with a bright tone. “Do you remember me? Of course you remember me.”

“Hey. I wasn't sure if you'd call me again.”

“I surprised you then. What do you think about going out? We could go to some nice cafe this time.” He didn't answer immediately, which angered me to some point. No-one was that shy.

“Well, I, actually... How about we meet at mine?” What kind of stupidity was that? I was offering him my company and he was declining! “I don't like crowds. And we were delayed with the salaries this month...”

I was silent for a few moments, but I had to lure him in somehow, so...

“Okay then. Text me your address and I'll be there in an hour.” And I hung up.

Maybe he thought the proposition was too hurried, keeping in mind that we had only seen each other in person once. But I had just three months to finish my novel and I could sense that I filled his soul with an insatiable desire to communicate. I was his idol, after all. Everyone in his position would be exhilarated.

This time I put on trousers – black and just washed, shaping my ass to perfection, some shirt (I tried hard not to leave toothpaste prints on it) and black boots. And I went out. Sammy whined sadly as he was used to me dedicating this day of the week only to him. Not today. Today I was dedicating it to a curly-haired boy with the high hopes that his presence in my life will inspire me a little or a lot.

“Down, boy. Daddy needs to do something important or I'll lose my job.” I knelt to pet him behind the ears, to calm him down. “Good boy.”

*******

I didn't expect the boy's humble abode to be Burj Al Arab as it was more than clear that he wasn't very well-off, but I was even more disappointed, when he greeted me at the door of his one-room flat that he was renting. It didn't even offer the comfort of having a kitchen and a living room in two separate rooms. While I had a laundry room, a bathroom and a toilet in three different spaces, he had everything packed in one. And on top of it Harry had a cat!

“Come in, please!” he said cheerfully.

His hallway was tinier than my toilet and could only accommodate a shoe stand (that I suspected he had skillfully crafted on his own, while watching “Do it yourself” videos) and a wall hanger, on which he hanged my coat. I toed my shoes off and realized how funny my branded boots looked next to his worn out sneakers. I entered the kitchen-dining room-living room and concluded that, even if cramped, Harry's apartment was extremely tidy and clean. All the jars that contained herbs and spices had little labels and were ordered by size and designation, and there was a beautiful vase full of flowers on the square table. Surprisingly, there was no hair on the couch from the pet (whose name I didn't remember), which was praiseworthy as I couldn't say the same for my furniture. While I memorized every detail of his house, Harry interrupted my thoughts by coming to stand by me.

“You have a lovely home, Harry.” I lied. His house was too tiny and couldn't fit more than two people.

“Thank you.” I made him happy with that little white lie. It's unbelievable how naive he was. “Can I offer you anything?” he asked and politely ushered me to the table. Then he started looking for a second chair. “I don't get guests very often. Excuse me,” he told me, ashamed, and searched his drawers for some treat.

“Coffee would be nice.” Harry grinned wide.

“I knew you'd want coffee, so I went to the store to buy you some. I'm not well versed on coffee, but I hope I don't make a fool out of myself.” His gesture caused an honest smile to appear on my face.

“Well, Harry, I see you've got a roommate,” I started as I observed the animal that was just entering the room. “Do you share the rent?” I wasn't very proud of my joke, but it seemed to enliven him and get rid of the anxiousness and the aim to be the perfect host.

“Dusty is pretty old. I've had her since I was a kid.” He smiled warmly in the animal's direction. He was remembering something, no doubt. “I got him out of a shaft when he was just a kitten. We've been inseparable since then.”

“That's cool. I have a dog, Sammy.” I hadn't saved my pet from a shaft, but I had paid a lot for him, because I had felt lonely in some point in my life. My mother suggested getting married, but I got myself a dog. And I didn't regret it – Sammy was as much work as a husband would be.

“Your coffee, kind sir,” Harry announced with a fake posh accent. He handed me the hot liquid in a porcelain cup with a little saucer. I felt like I was in the cafe that I had planned us to visit and not in his tiny flat. That was good.

He came to sit next to me and, to my surprise, took the cat, which until then had been rubbing its head in Harry's legs, and placed it in his lap. He played with and petted it and the animal answered with love and purring. I felt more than uncomfortable for having to drink my coffee in the company of a fur ball that was named after a plane in a animated movie. But I kept my mouth shut.

“So, Louis. I can't not ask you about your job. How is it going?” I got excited. I frantically desired to tell him all about my career of a thriving writer, who had reached the top in my genre. But then I grew kind of sad, when I realized that there was nothing new to say. Not today, at least.

“You know – one and the same. Writing, ideas, inspiration. It's coming from everywhere!” His eyes brightened and he pricked up his ears.

“That is amazing! I'm so glad for you.” Dusty jumped off his lap. “I can't wait to read something new. I've read everything of yours at least a few times.” I thanked him for the praises and mentally made a note to self: Harry Styles has read every one of your books at least a few times. That was something I would remember and tap into one day, when I was desperate enough.

“I'm glad someone is excited about my work.”

“Are you kidding me? Come. I'll show you something.” And he did.

He got up from his chair and returned it to its previous position neatly, he smoothed out the wrinkles on the tablecloth and left the kitchen-dinning room-living room. I got up immediately after him, but I doubted I'd get lost in his flat that had only three doors. I followed him to what I understood was his bedroom. It was a nice, airy, tidy and exceptionally welcoming, keeping in mind the limited capacity. The sheets on the single bed were pure white as snow and next to the bed there was a wooden night stand. On it lay an ordinary lamp and a framed picture. My hypermetropia didn't let me down and I could tell that the photo was of Harry and an unfamiliar blond girl – his sister Gemma or his best friend, Molly. They were smiling with eyes that revealed the same brightness. Yes, that was Gemma. There was also a wardrobe. It wasn't very big and held clothes that I didn't pay any mind to, because something else caught my attention.

It completely drew me in.

“That's...”

Me. That was the whole of me summed up on two shelves that consisted of my books. All of my books. Alphabetically ordered or ordered by size or by popularity or by his fondness of them. I couldn't be certain, but I was already familiar with Harry Styles' mania for tidiness and I was sure he had put some time into arranging the books in some particular way. And I was stunned. All my sleepless nights and hundreds of coffees that I shared with my computer and the mess that was in my head. The anxiety and the thousands of dollars I made. My pride and fame. Dozens of pages of me. And all of this, shared with Harry Styles. And many more like him.

“Wow,” was all I could say. “Thank you for giving your all to respect my work.”

“It's my pleasure, Louis Tomlinson.” I sensed a touch of happiness in his voice. I didn't know what to feel.

Harry Styles invited me at his home to show me his collection of my books. It turned out that he was the proud owner of many more reading mater, but “Only yours are worthy to be placed on the honorable place next to my bed.” I was also informed (Mr Shmidt/Shimdt had mentioned something like this before, too) that my books were translated into other languages – Dutch, French, Spanish, Russian and Italian; and that Harry Styles made his aunt in Russia bring them to him as Christmas presents – “I can't speak Russian, but I can always learn it.” I left his flat at seven-thirty pm.

I walked to my home, bemused by the idea of writing about Harry Styles.

 

**PART ll**

_pg.9 – from “Book of lies”_  
I'll tell you something about Harry Styles – he's extremely comical. I have never seen someone with such a mania to tidy up and I swear that even from the doorstep of his tiny apartment one can tell that he has spent hours cleaning his hand-made shoes stand and has found a way to easily distinguish salt from sugar – something I often couldn't do (and in result drank salty coffee).  
  
He's in love with his cat and adores telling the story of their first meeting. He must be feeling like a hero while explaining how he had saved the little animal from certain death, but I suspected that his heroism was only remembered by the kitten. And it was more than grateful to its master. And yet again – Harry Styles is seized by the insatiable nostalgia towards his sister, because her absence makes him feel alone in the gigantic New York that was too big for his limited world. He has a picture of them next to his bed and I'm sure he calls her every night to tell her all about his dull day at the bakery. I imagine he has already gushed to her like a smitten high school student about me visiting his home and seeing the collection of books.  
While I'm feeling flattered by his reading all of my writings a few times and buying my books in foreign languages, I also feel pressured and squeezed against the wall. He knows me too well – he knows about my habit of putting too much sugar in my coffee; he is painfully aware of my favorite song and has managed to collect all of my work in two fucking shelves. I thought I was untouchable, unreachable and mysterious. And in the end one baker succeeds in reading me like an open book.  
  
He has a family – a beautiful sister that he still keeps in touch with despite the long distance separating them; a mother that has gifted him with his childish spark in his eyes, and Molly – his reliable friend, who gave him suggestions and ideas for Christmas presents. And I have nobody: my dog is my best friend; my little sister is at some college that I don't know the name of; my boss is an asshole; my parents only seek me out on my birthdays.  
  
I'm aware that Harry Styles doesn't know the luxury of owning an apartment with more than three rooms, while I have seven of them – expensive furniture everywhere, Rubens originals on the walls, bidet in the toilet and a massager in the bathroom. But I don't have any family photos and I don't get Christmas cards from my parents. I drink expensive coffee, but I drink it on my own. My boss is the first person in my contacts list and the most called one is the pizza man. Because I am hopelessly and enviably rich.  
  
And Harry Styles is enviably rich and enviably happy.   
  
_I choose to write about you, Harry Styles, because you're the boy with the curls that I want to get to know in spite of your peculiarities._

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my first language and I'm sorry for any grammar mistakes. I want to thank my best friend for being my translator.


End file.
